


Married or Right

by frenchposie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Marriage, Not Happy, Post-Divorce, Sherlock Being a Good Brother
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-26
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2019-04-28 07:00:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14443893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frenchposie/pseuds/frenchposie
Summary: Greg and Mycroft come to an impasse where they can either be married, or they can be correct.





	1. Chapter 1

Memories were a funny thing.  Greg could connect bits and pieces of clues to make cases fit in the right order to go before the judiciary, and all of his life that had been enough.  But, against Mycroft’s eidetic memory, his was sorely lacking.  Normally a proud man, he was also realistic.  He knew he could be proud of his career, his choice of husband, his choice of sports teams.  But, there was a reality to it too – that sometimes when his decently trained memory came across the eidetic memory of a Holmes, he had to face facts and just know that they were right.

But, they didn’t need to be so almighty sure about it. 

“I’m telling you, Gregory.  Eventually you are going to realize that I am very seldom wrong about things, and just follow my lead,” Mycroft stated with that almighty certainty that Greg was starting to loathe.

“Why? Why do you have to be right all the time?  And when you’re right, you’re so … argh!” He kicked the side of the couch in a rare burst of lost control.

Mycroft paused weighing his next words carefully.  He had seldom seen Gregory so angry, and certainly not because of him. Generally, responses like this were drawn out by Sherlock.  “Gregory…” he said, warily. “I’m confident because I  _know_  I’m correct. And, I don’t have the time to pretend that you’re correct when you’re so clearly not.” Gregory knew that there were many demands on his time.  Generally, he just went along with whatever Mycroft said, and things were calm.  For some reason, though, this issue was different.

Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, Greg leveled a stare at Mycroft that he typically reserved for criminals.  “Then I suppose you need to make a decision, Mycroft.  I’m not a goldfish.  I won’t be treated like one.”

“You didn’t give me a choice,” Mycroft stated, speaking specifically of the last sentence Gregory had given him.  The statement had been opened like a quandary.  But, one didn’t exist, merely a statement of statements.

“Right,” Greg replied, obviously not understanding Mycroft’s meaning.  There was a bit of disappointment in his voice. “I’m not an idiot, or a doddering old fool. But, I suppose to you Holmes brothers I am.  I should have known really,” he said, his tone transitioning from disappointment to understanding. 

Seeing his folly, Mycroft tried to recover. He knew that he could not tell Greg that he was wrong – again.  That wouldn’t be taken well at all.  “No, you misunderstand. What choice do I have?” Mycroft asked, taking a step towards Gregory.  He put his hand out, trying to initiate touch, but swallowed thickly when he reached air.

Greg stepped away from Mycroft.  He didn’t understand how a man who was capable understanding the intentions of world leaders could be so dense when it came to personal relationships.  A sigh and then.  “None, I suppose.”  His voice was broken, all of his features indicating that his heart was as well.

“I’m going out,” Greg said, making his way to the front door.  “If you change the locks by the time I get back, I’ll work with Anthea to get my stuff out tomorrow.”  He actually didn’t know what to do if Mycroft didn’t change the locks.  Nor did he know if he was ever coming back.

“That can’t be the choice!” Mycroft cried, his voice nearly frantic.

“You’ll make the right choice,” Gregory said, pulling on his coat.  “You always do.”  With that, he walked into the chilly London night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock try to reason with Mycroft and Greg.

Mycroft waited for Gregory to come home for hours.  He tried ringing his mobile once, but was pushed to voicemail.  Not knowing what to say, he didn’t leave one.  As he slipped into bed, he looked over at the slightly unmade side of the bed.  He wished that Gregory was sliding in next to him, but he didn’t know if that would ever happen again. 

The worst part in the replaying of the fight was that he identified precisely where he lost control of the argument, and exactly when he broke Gregory’s heart because of it.  He shot off a quick text to Gregory ** _I did not change the locks. You are welcomed home when you want to come home._ **

Gregory looked at the phone when it pinged.  He had spent a few hours at the Yard, but found he didn’t want to be there either.  Finally, he found a hostel that he’d never heard of and pulled in for the night. He didn’t want to go where he wasn’t wanted, where he wasn’t valued.

He sent a fish emoji back to Mycroft.  It wasn’t a goldfish, but he was certain the man would get the idea. 

Cold dense prickles climbed down Mycrofts arms as he realized that Gregory was not coming home.  It was an odd stupid fight, but it seemed so final.  “What choice do I have?” he whispered to himself as he turned off the lights and tried to go to sleep.

\--

The next morning, Mycroft sent off little text messages to those he knew would talk to him and let him know if Gregory was safe.  Sherlock surprised him when he called in response.

“How should I know how Greg is doing? He’s your husband,” Sherlock taunted.

Silence.  Mycroft had no idea how to respond. 

“Mycroft? Mycroft, did you hear me?” Sherlock asked, the taunting tone still evident in his voice.

He was fishing for information, Mycroft could tell.  But, he didn’t want to answer. He weighed his options and if it was worth it to hang up on his younger brother. 

“What happened?” His voice pitch was lower, and the teasing joviality was gone.

Mycroft sighed and started getting ready for work.  “He left.”

“Why?”

“Because … he didn’t give me a choice,” Mycroft said, knowing that those were the words that cost him his marriage. 

“You made him leave?” Sherlock said, trying to connect the dots.  If it had been a normal person, he could figure it out.  But, Mycroft thought everything through – even further than Sherlock, and if there was a choice… none of it added up.

“No. He misconstrued what I was trying to say and he left.  He doesn’t want to come home.”  He drew in a deep breath.  He swallowed thickly and then admitted, “I don’t know what to do.”

Sherlock was stunned.  They didn’t have a companionable, brotherly relationship.  In fact, they barely got along most days.  “All right.  I’ll help you,” Sherlock said.  Things had been different since the truth became known at Sherringford.  Sherlock didn’t get the same joy out of belittling his brother when he asked for help or when he was vulnerable.  There seemed to be a cruel edge to it, and despite everything that Mycroft was and wasn’t, he didn’t deserve those who he loved to be cruel to him.

“I don’t know what that looks like,” Mycroft said, causing Sherlock to pause.

Were Sherlock a betting man, he would assume that the statement’s intended interpretation was that Mycroft didn’t know what kind of help he needed.  But, Sherlock realized all too readily, that Mycroft truly did not know what it was like to have his brother help him.  Although Mycroft couldn’t see it, Sherlock blinked a few times, as complicated emotions rippled across his face.  “I’ll meet you at your office, and you can tell me what transpired,” Sherlock said before hanging up the phone.

\--

“Sherlock’s worried about Mycroft,” John said, as he came into Greg’s office.  “What’s going…” His words died on his lips as he took in Greg’s careworn expression.  “What happened?”

“Mycroft thinks I’m an idiot.  He’s been pretending to love me, and I can’t do it anymore,” Greg huffed out, gesturing for John to close the door. 

John nodded as Greg told him what had happened.  He knew, first hand, how frustrating it was to deal with a Holmes. “Well, Mycroft does think that most of the free world are idiots, so you’re in good company,” he joked. 

Greg wasn’t smiling.

John sighed.  “Greg, what did you expect. We’re just not up to their level.  You  _know_ that.”

“I don’t want it anymore.  I don’t want to be his goldfish,” Greg retorted.  The rest of the damned world respects me.  Why can’t my husband?”

\--

True to his word, Sherlock was waiting for Mycroft, and followed his brother into the office without any shenanigans.  It felt odd, like they were on the same side for once. He wasn’t certain if he liked it, but this was about supporting Mycroft in a way that only Greg had before.

Sitting down across from his brothers significantly large desk, he leaned forward. “So, tell me everything.”

And Mycroft did, utilizing his eidetic memory in a way that could only truly be understood by someone else with the same skill.  By the end, Sherlock had winced a total of nine times, and was now looking at his older brother with consternation.  "He really didn't give you the choice, did he?" Sherlock said, seeing exactly where the break down happened.

 

"He thinks that I think he's a goldfish," Mycroft stated in a slightly hoarse voice.

 

"You do.  I do.  Mycroft, he is."

 

"He's not as bad as others.  He's a good deal quicker than John," Mycroft bit back.

 

Sherlock smiled at the response.  "Shouldn't we be happy that Lestrade finally owns up to his failures?" He thought that he would continue to draw his brother out.  What he did not expect was that Mycroft was going to deflate. 

 

"Mycroft?" Sherlock asked, softly. 

 

 "I can't make him something he isn't.  If he's wrong, I have to let him know," Mycroft explained softly.

 

Understanding crossed Mycroft's face.  "Ah, I see.  Mycroft it seems that he implied the initial choice that you had to make."  It was so obvious he was amazed that his brother had missed it. 

 

Mycroft regarded Sherlock for a moment before realization overtook him. "Ah."  He closed his eyes and stuttered a breath. 

"You can be correct, Mycroft..."

 

"... or I can stay married."  His mouth opened and closed a bit.  "I can't live in a lie where his memory is better than mine.  I cannot just let him think that his errors are an acceptable way to live," Mycroft spat out angrily.

 

"Then you seem to have made up your mind," Sherlock said, nonchalantly.

 

"How do you do it, Sherlock?  How do you put up with leading John through _everything_?"  He had pondered the answer to that question for years.

 

Sherlock thought for a second.  "Well, I do want him to understand, and he won't get there without me.  But, when he is right, I notice.  And I tell him that I notice.  From what I can tell it takes the edge off whatever hurt his limitations cause him.  It's annoying, but it keeps him..." He trailed off, realizing how much of himself he was giving away. 

 

"Do you want to keep Lestrade?"

"Yes, of course.  But, I won't lie to him.  I can't.  I love him too much."  Mycroft's heart pounded in his chest as he felt his conundrum wage war in his mind.  His emotions and his logic at war for control. 

 

"Maybe you should let him go.  You seem to be in an untenable situation," Sherlock said.

 

"Reverse psychology is cheap, Sherlock.  You can do better."

 

"I'm not using reverse psychology.  If he needs to be right and you need to be right, then unless he can keep up with you, it cannot work."

 

Mycroft looked sad.  It was a look Sherlock had grown used to on his brother.  But, the years that had been spent with Lestrade had been different.  The man had been more open to changes to his routine, more comfortable in his own skin.  There was a desolate rounding about the edges in his brother and he didn't think the look suited him anymore.  Sherlock felt sad for him. 

 

"Yes, that was what I had come to as well.  Thank you for confirming my instincts were correct, brother mine.  Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a meeting with the Prime Minister that I must prepare for."  Mycroft looked expectantly at Sherlock.

 

Taking the hint, Sherlock nodded and got up to leave.  "One more question?" he queried when he reached the door. 

 

"Hm?" Mycroft was pulling a file from his drawer. 

 

"Your answer should not only reflect what will make you most happy, but Lestrade as well."

 

With a deep sigh, Mycroft knew what he had to do.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Balance has been restored and all is right in the world... from a certain point of view.

Detective Inspector Lestrade was laughing, his head thrown back, and eyes dancing as he looked over at his partner. 

 

Steve.

 

The two of them had met about three months after the divorce, and they had been nearly inseparable ever since.  Both fathers to daughter in their early twenties, they bonded over the trials and tribulations that came with that particular circumstance.  They had met while Gregory was at the golf range - a past time he would not have come into without Mycroft.  They had gone on simple dates, and then family outings with their daughters.

 

Steve was a professor at Queens College, London and had less pressures on his time than Mycroft.  When Steve had to travel for work or research, he brought Gregory with him.  Mycroft had never seen the man look so happy.

 

They had been comfortable together, he recalled as he turned off the CCTV display.  As soon as Gregory had shown interest, Mycroft had a file created.  And, no matter how much it numbed him, he couldn't begrudge what a good fit they were for each other.  The year after their divorce was an emotionally tumulus one, and one that Mycroft would never go through again.  He was done with romantic love.  It didn't suit him - nor his lifestyle.  It had taken a wonderful man like Gregory Lestrade to show him that.

 

"Are you ready to go, sir?" Anthea asked, walking into his office, eyes briefly leaving her blackberry.

 

"Indeed I am," he answered, placing the relevant files into his briefcase before leaving the room with her for a meeting with the Prime Minister.  


End file.
